


Well-Beloved Unto Me

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Warning: Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters don't get rewarded for all the shit they go through, so Dean is understandably wary when a few recharged and promoted angels offer him and Sam the vacation of a lifetime. Title comes from the Song of Solomon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well-Beloved Unto Me

  
It goes without saying that the Winchesters do not get rewarded.

Not for killing ghosts, nor vampires, nor werewolves – in fact, sometimes they get _punished_ for killing the things that go bump in the night, and that's just a part of the life. A part of hunting. You do the job because you want to make a difference, because you want to _help_ people. You don't become a hunter if you want a 401k and good dental.

Suffice to say, Dean is _really_ fucking surprised when, about three weeks after the apocalypse-that-wasn't (and the less said about Sam's time in Hell the better, thanks), Castiel and Gabriel appear in the middle of their motel room with a soft sigh of moving air, the flutter of wings.

Sam stares at Gabriel. Dean stares at Castiel. The angels stare back. It's a whole big staring thing going on.

"Thought you were supposed to be dead," Sam says, and Gabriel shrugs.

"I got better."

Dean doesn't even bother with the formalities. He's up and striding across the room before Cas can even speak, punching the angel in the arm (it's like hitting a piece of granite), and then pulling him into a hug. Gradually, the tense muscles beneath his hands start to relax, and Dean realizes, with no small amount of amazement, that Castiel has pressed his face against Dean's neck.

Castiel is _smiling_.

"Technicalities notwithstanding," he hears Gabriel say, "We've got something for you boys."

And Dean stiffens a little, because that right there is one of the big rules of hunting: you don't get rewarded, not ever. And if someone tries, it's absolutely guaranteed to go wrong. Like with Lisa, and Ben. Like Sam with Madison.

Castiel breathes quietly against his skin.

"Trust us," he says, and God help him, but Dean does.

Maybe not so much Gabriel, though.

Gabriel is still kind of a dick.

~

The 'reward,' as it turns out, is a vacation.

One all expenses paid trip to the Kingdom of Heaven.

Not the human heaven, the little slices of road and house, memories of bars and hotel rooms - no, the _actual_ Heaven, where the angels, and apparently God, too, live.

Sam immediately starts freaking out (like the giant girl that he is). He gushes about gates and thrones and principalities and Dean has no idea what the _fuck_ else, but he notices that Gabriel seems pretty content to just listen, this time around, instead of running his mouth and torturing them in infomercials. If he wants to listen to Sam wax poetic about Heaven, that's fine by Dean.

"Do I have to like, wear a suit?" Dean asks, because he doesn't want to wear a suit, he really doesn't.

"No, Dean," Castiel says. Infinitely patient.

"And you're sure we get to come back? This isn't a one-way trip, right?"

"I would not lie to you about something this important."

Dean bites back the urge to say something along the lines of 'You have before,' but even though he doesn't say it aloud, Castiel still flinches like he's been struck.

"We have put you through so much pain," Castiel murmurs, and yeah, that sounds about right.

"Things were weird, without you around," Dean says, instead of acknowledging Castiel's words. And it's almost like an apology, just between the two of them.

Behind them, Sam starts gesturing wildly, apparently trying to illustrate a swan (or possibly Angelina Jolie) with his hands; Gabriel nods along with whatever he's saying, somehow managing to look half-asleep, but also interested.

~

Heaven looks an awful lot like Pittsburgh.

Granted, it's a cleaner, brighter Pittsburgh that's inhabited entirely by glowing balls of light, but still. Pittsburgh.

Castiel and Gabriel are two of these glowing balls of light. Which is doubly weird, because Dean can still see _them_, or his memory of them, superimposed over the gaseousness of their actual forms. He can easily make out the intensity of Castiel's blue eyes, Gabriel's smug grin.

He and Sam just look…normal.

"God has a weird sense of humor," Dean decides. Sam stares dejectedly at a bus full of angels as it rumbles past.

"Come," Castiel says. "There is more yet to show you."

Dean highly doubts that Castiel's 'more' will happen to be a cheesesteak, but hey, the angels look happy enough to be home. Who is he to harsh their buzz?

~

"I take back everything I ever said about Pittsburgh," Dean says.

Sam makes a noise of agreement into his chocolate-raspberry torte (seriously, what the fuck is a torte? It looks like a cake to Dean).

The angels beam at them. And Dean isn't just talking about Cas and Gabriel – no, they're _surrounded_ by these balls of light, and some of them have faces while others just have _sensations_: a gust of icy wind, the smell of hot chocolate, the feel of leather. They're all standing around watching the Winchesters eat corndogs and pie and cake and fucking chef salads off an endless buffet line of awesome food.

(Sam's the only one who's eating salad, and Dean's the only one who's eating corndogs, but whatever.)

"I feel like a National Geographic special," Dean complains, but it's without heat. The angels aren't watching them like they're judging; they aren't acting like Dean and Sam are animals performing for their entertainment. As weird and cheesy as it sounds, it's like they're just…being protective. Being _interested_, and Dean is suffused with warmth and general good will whenever one looks his way.

Well, mostly whenever _Cas_ looks his way, which is always, so Dean spends what feels like an eternity eating decadent food and feeling tingly and oversensitive in ways that he thinks are distinctly _non_-Heavenly.

Thankfully, after a while Cas and Gabriel shoo the other angels away, and Dean and Sam are led away from the buffet table to a room that looks like it's worth roughly its weight in gold. He shouldn't even be calling it a room – it's like a miniature _house_. Everything is open and bright and spacious, and the 'rooms' are separated by _curtains with fucking tassels on them_. There's a wet bar, a television that nearly takes up a whole wall all by itself, more books than Sam could read in a lifetime (and Sam looks about ready to jizz in his pants over _that_), and two king-size beds that come complete with silk sheets and pillows stuffed with goose down.

The bathroom has a Jacuzzi and one of those wrap-around showers you only see in movies, where the jets spray out at you from every angle.

The first thing Dean does is to shove Sam into the shower and turn it on, then run away cackling. Sam looks like a drowned rat afterwards, and Dean gleefully anticipates pepper in his briefs, or super glue in his shoes, the moment they come back to life.

Castiel watches with an indulgent expression; he's a lot more emotive, here, than he was in his vessel. Or maybe it's just that Dean can _feel_ everything, he doesn't only have to see it. He can _tell_ that Cas is being indulgent, and sort of internally shaking his head a little. But _fondly_.

Gabriel laughs, and shows Sam how to manifest fresh clothes using the power of his mind. In Heaven, their clothes, their rooms, the food, their _bodies_…are nothing more than an extension of memory. Everything that they see, and taste, and touch…it's all things that have been pulled directly from the lives of the brothers Winchester. Bits and pieces cobbled together from snippets of movies and TV shows, hunts, and now Dean realizes why some of that buffet food had seemed familiar.

It's been a long time since he had the luxury of 'favorites,' but Dean is pretty sure that, when he was a kid, he'd loved corndogs so much he could have gorged himself on them.

"There is nothing here that will not bring you joy," Castiel says warmly.

Sure enough, the nightstand next to one of the beds is stocked with hand lotion and all the best issues of Busty Asian Beauties.

~

Dean's pretty used to falling asleep while Castiel sits and watches him (apparently it's an angel thing, because Gabriel's doing the exact same thing to Sam), so he doesn't have any trouble conking out when he tosses himself into his bed. The sheets and pillows are soft, the temperature is the perfect medium between hot and cold, and he's in _Heaven_. Literally. For the first time in years, Dean doesn't worry about nightmares, his _or_ Sam's.

He revises this opinion when he wakes up, what feels like a short time later, and hears Sam _moaning_.

And it is sad and kind of scary that he and Sam have been attached at the hip for so long that he knows what his little brother sounds like when he's getting off.

"Oh, dude," Dean grumbles into his pillow. There's a short burst of light, and then the sound of one of the many tasseled curtains being drawn shut – the noise immediately vanishes. As if it had never been there. Dean cautiously raises his head, sees Castiel hovering near the divide between Dean's 'bedroom' and Sam's.

"I apologize," Castiel murmurs. "I was unaware that Gabriel intended to…"

He trails off. Dean blinks at him, at the brilliance of him. In his true form, Cas is sort of like Christmas tree lights, fey and beautiful and a little bit magic. And he's not just a big swirling ball of light, either – looking closer, Dean can see flecks of color, spots where the light is brighter or thinner, more or less _there_. And still he can see what, in his mind, is _Castiel_: the blue eyes, the stupidly mussed hair, the tan trench coat, all fading out at the edges, but undeniably there.

"I apologize," Castiel says again, and Dean blinks back to the present.

"Um," he says. "Wait. Sam and…and _Gabriel_?"

"Gabriel has been separated from the Host for a very long time. He has been lonely. And he is…fond of Sam," is Castiel's explanation, which makes no sense, because the last time Dean checked, Gabriel had made Sam do an ad for herpes medication at least fifteen different times, and then he turned Sam into a _car_.

Maybe it's like, pulling someone's pigtails or something.

But… "Wait," Dean says. "You guys don't even have…" He gestures vaguely in the direction of where Castiel's groin would have been, had he still possessed a human vessel. Castiel blinks serenely at him, and Dean is marginally proud of his ability to remember that angels, essentially, are genderless. No sex for them.

"Intimacy and sexual intercourse are not mutually exclusive," Castiel says. There's laughter in his voice, or in Dean's _memory_ of his voice. "We are perfectly capable of expressing our affection in other ways. For humans, it merely happens to have…side effects of a sexual nature."

"You give someone a hug and they come in their pants," Dean says sagely.

"That is…not entirely accurate, no. Although touch is integral, it does not involve any appendages that would be familiar to you."

Okay, now Dean's interest is piqued. _Appendages_. Which implies that, somewhere in that big, glowing ball of light, Castiel has a body. Or something _similar_ to a body. And that Sam, in the other bed, is getting to see what an angel's _appendages_ look like first-hand.

Which totally isn't fair, because Dean had Cas _first_.

Dean closes his eyes, and quietly admits that he might be, maybe, a little bit hot for Cas. That blue eyes have featured prominently in his bar hook-ups ever since he first saw the angel looking intense and sort of confused in a warehouse. That he's been going for girls with shorter and shorter hair, brunettes with long legs and trim waists. He's willing to admit that all of that is true.

"So explain it to me," Dean says, and throws back his sheets a little, enough so that he can get his legs untangled from silk. "You have…what, wings? Lobster claws? A fucking tail or something? I'm pretty sure I can handle anything you can throw at me."

Castiel glances at the curtain, and then back at Dean, brows furrowed. And it's weird, to think that Castiel doesn't actually have a _face_, here. Doesn't have arms or legs or hands. Just Dean's memory of them.

"You are asking me to…?"

_Oh shit,_ Dean thinks. Because it's entirely possible that Cas has never once thought about him that way. The dude's an _angel_, and not the way Gabriel is, not full of experience and knowledge and _desires_. Cas is as pure as the driven snow, as far as Dean is aware. He holds up his hands, cheeks uncomfortably hot.

"No," he says quickly. "I mean…maybe. If it's something you…want? I guess?"

Oh God, he's lame. He's so lame it's painful. Dean carefully twitches the sheets back over his legs, uncomfortably aware of the fact that thinking about Cas and him has left him with more to worry about than how pathetic he is.

Like how he's probably going to end up jerking off in that big, fancy bathroom, for example.

The sheets rustle, and Dean glances down at his legs, eyebrow raised, because _he_ sure as hell didn't move them.

When he glances up again, Castiel is looming into his personal space, the vague outline of a man and so much power crammed into one tiny pocket of air that Dean's breath rushes out of him at the sight of it.

"You make many assumptions," Castiel murmurs. "They are not always wrong, Dean."

And then Castiel leans forward and kisses him.

There's no real way to describe it. It isn't like kissing a person, a regular person – it's more like standing in a wind tunnel. Dean can feel pressure against his mouth, and his brain valiantly tries to apply memories to the situation, but because he's never kissed Castiel before it becomes one great big jumble of sensory input that has absolutely nothing to do with being kissed: the smell of ozone after a lightning storm, the touch of velvet, how awesome a hot shower feels after working a hunt out in the cold. These, and more, and when Castiel pulls back Dean realizes that he's being _held_. There's pressure against his shoulders, his sides, his hips, but _Castiel has no hands_.

"Um," Dean says, and the pressure shifts, one long, smooth glide across his skin. He glances down in time to see…

"Is that a tentacle?"

"It is not," Castiel says gravely, and the tent- the _appendage_ curls in gentle spirals against Dean's bare side. And when Dean looks closer, it isn't a tentacle, not exactly. It extends from the center of Castiel, made of the same softly glowing light, and now that he's looking closer he sees it isn't just one long, flexible trunk, but a dozen or more. Thin, bright tendrils like spools of thread.

Tendrils that are currently insinuating themselves into Dean's briefs.

He doesn't really have time to make any sort of sound other than a startled yelp as the little curls of light grip the fabric (_memory of fabric_), and then _burn straight through it_. The illusion of clothing vanishes under Castiel's touch in strips and pieces, until Dean is lying naked underneath a being that has the ability to level cities and _bring people back to life_.

Which is intimidating, yeah, but also really, really hot.

"So this is an angel hug," Dean manages to gasp out; while Castiel seems mostly content to explore (curious touches to his arms, the mark that's still there, across his chest and over his hips), there are a few tendrils that move with purpose, skating across Dean's skin in order to loop in loose coils around the base of his dick. They squeeze and pull seemingly at random, and Dean's hips can't find a rhythm to slide into. It's fucking _frustrating_, and Castiel is just staring at him with an expression that's sort of like awe and sort of like _want_.

"It is a touch of the most intimate kind," Castiel agrees. He sounds kind of rattled, kind of breathless. "My Grace, connecting to your soul. In human terms, it is…unbearably erotic."

Dean thinks he could probably listen to Cas say 'erotic' just about all day long, but then one of the tendrils drifts down, nudging curiously at his balls, and then just behind, and _Jesus fuck_, it's sort of like being bathed in electricity. Dean spreads his legs on instinct, and the touch becomes firmer, nudging inside him with an ease that Dean knows shouldn't be possible, except they're in Heaven and Cas has _tentacles_, so maybe he can suspend his disbelief for just a moment, sit back, and enjoy.

"Naughty angel touching, then," he gasps, voice falling away on a moan as Cas pushes deeper, the tendrils around his cock growing surer in their movements. When Cas leans down to kiss him again, Dean eagerly tilts his head up to accept, moans again when he realizes that this stuff that Cas is made of, this light, this _Grace_, clings to his lips like honey, smoothes across his tongue like fingers.

"You are beautiful," he hears, but he isn't sure if Cas says it or just thinks it, but Dean is aware of the fact that Cas is getting off on this, in as much as angels _can_ get off. It's this deep, unabashed _love_ that scours him clean from the inside out, a continuous well of adoration, and even experiencing it half-hearted through Castiel's touch is like the best and driest orgasm of his life. It runs through his body in waves as Castiel nudges against his prostate and pulls at his dick and _kisses_ him, scorching out any thoughts except here, and now. Dean reaches for the shape of Castiel's shoulders, fingers finding and gripping something that feels like holding on to a live wire, and Castiel makes this _noise_, this otherworldly and beautiful noise.

Dean imagines it might be Castiel singing.

That, more than anything else, is what pushes him over the edge – sure, the pseudo-sex is awesome, and hey, tentacles are weird, but he can get behind them…but the idea that touching his soul, _Dean's_ soul, which has been through Hell and back…the idea that Cas touching his soul is enough to make the angel _sing_? Yeah, that's powerful, and Dean reaches down between them, curls his fingers around his dick and around Castiel's Grace and strokes until orgasm rushes through him, nowhere near as intense as what Cas is experiencing, but good, so good. For a moment, his voice joins Castiel's, a long and wavering groan, as he comes all over his stomach and his own hand, thick and hot and _wet_.

He's pretty sure he just ejaculated brain matter, but whatever.

Castiel's Grace slowly uncoils from around his dick, slipping against Dean's fingers. The one still inside him begs its way out, slow and careful, the opposite of how it had simply _fitted_ in him in the first place. Dean is left feeling vaguely empty, which is weird, because there was no stretching involved, no solid _girth_ to Castiel's Grace.

He thinks he might be missing having all that sheer _power_ held inside him. Like cradling a bonfire in the palm of his hand.

He feels the retreat of Castiel's warmth, and has a mild panic attack.

"Stay," he says quickly, because it's totally the gentlemanly thing to do. It's not because he really wants to feel all that heat and power pressed up against him. Against his _soul_. Jesus Christ. "I mean, I know I'm not actually sleeping, but just…stay? For a while?"

Castiel cocks his head. There's something about him that looks…ruffled. Not exactly uneasy, but definitely like something's happened that he didn't expect. After a long moment, though, he nods, and drifts close enough that Dean can bury his fingers in the weird electric-ozone feeling of Castiel's Grace. The angel's eyes flutter closed, and the tendrils make a second appearance, looping over Dean's waist like arms.

"You are a singularly amazing man, Dean Winchester," Castiel sighs.

The curtain rustles, and then parts just enough for Gabriel to poke his head through. _He's_ got angel-tentacles too, larger than Castiel's, and Dean has the somewhat uncomfortable feeling that this is the Heavenly equivalent of walking around with your dick out.

Gabriel doesn't seem to care.

"Next time," Gabriel says slowly, "You might want to remember to _tie the curtains closed_, instead of letting them flap open every time you move too fast."

Castiel makes a noise that, if he were human, Dean would interpret as a mortified squeak. As it is, though, it's more a spill of breath and power than anything else. Gabriel grins at them, and then disappears once more behind the curtain, pulling it all the way shut.

"Hey," Dean says, when it becomes apparent that Castiel might be content to spend the rest of the night in silence. "That sound…was that you singing?"

Castiel's mouth quirks in a small smile. "It was."

"What were you singing about?" He's genuinely curious. Were there words? Or was it just an outpouring of emotion, too strong to be contained in the throat? Castiel presses a dry, delicate kiss to Dean's temple, the light of his Grace bathing them both in warmth.

"You," he murmurs. "Always you."


End file.
